


Baby Steps

by KissMyAsh



Series: The Secret-oneshots [4]
Category: The Secret Saturdays
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Trauma, Doyle is not a good dad, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Multi, Substance Abuse, Survival Training, Violence, Zak is Doyle's biological kid, but he will try to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissMyAsh/pseuds/KissMyAsh
Summary: It wasn’t his. There was no way that it was his. Couldn’t be! Doyle enjoyed sex, that wasn’t a lie. But he always had protected sex. Wrapped before he tapped. Yeah, maybe some shit got blurry after he knocked back a few drinks, but Doyle was smart. At least he thought he was.A joke. It was all a joke set up by his shitty boss. It had to be! For fucks sake the kid wasn’t even white!In which Zak is Doyle's biological baby.
Relationships: Doc Saturday/Drew Saturday, Doyle Blackwell & Zak Saturday
Series: The Secret-oneshots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1027470
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Baby Steps

It wasn’t his. There was no way that it was _his_. Couldn’t be! Doyle enjoyed sex, that wasn’t a lie. But he always had _protected_ sex. Wrapped before he tapped. Yeah, maybe some shit got blurry after he knocked back a few drinks, but Doyle was smart. At least he thought he was.

A joke. It was all a joke set up by his shitty boss. It had to be! For fucks sake the kid wasn’t even _white_!

Smoke curled sluggishly from his nose. Stubbing out the cigarette he glanced down at the covered car seat. The brat was still asleep, had been since he had been dropped off on his doorstep. There was no letter, or words of remorse. Just a child. And a card. With his _real name_ on it. The birth certificate had been wrapped around the handle, and sure enough, his name had been on _that_ too.

Admittedly, the certificate itself was enough to make Doyle pause. It was censored. Heavily, at that.

His name was clear on display, and so was the kid’s first name. Everything regarding the mother was removed. Name, ethnicity, date of birth—nothing. It was like she didn’t exist. Or wasn’t allowed to.

That was enough to send goosebumps down his arms. He was supposed to stay on site for another week. Two, if he was down on his luck. He’d have to jump to a different motel. He wouldn’t risk staying in a compromised location.

It would be easy to pack up and run. Wouldn’t be the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last; he just had one small kink in those plans. The baby. He bent into a low crouch and lifted the carry-on cover, deciding to simply tuck it over the handlebar rather than remove it.

If there was anything to be thankful for, it would be the infant’s temperament. It was a quiet thing, didn’t look very fussy. But then again it didn’t look very old, either. It looked like every other baby he ever had the displeasure of seeing.

The hair though, Doyle was pretty sure that wasn’t normal.

No, seriously, what the actual fuck was up with it?

His fingers lightly grazed the kid’s head. The hair was still soft, wispy. Two-toned. A large white patch slumped over the baby’s forehead, but the rest of the fluff covering its squishy head was an ambiguous grey color. He would have considered it bullshit, and blamed some crappy ethics about bleaching hair but, no. The hair was white. Down to the _roots_.

Doyle pulled back as their nose twitched. Best not to wake it.

He should drop the kid off somewhere, burn the certificate, cut his losses.

So why wasn’t he?

Tugging his hair out of its ponytail, he sighed. He knew why.

Look, call him what you want but he wasn’t depraved enough to leave a child in the hands of the government. Fuckers never did _him_ any good. God, who thought it was a good idea to leave the kid with him? It’s— _Doyle refused to call it a he, or by the name, isn’t that what they say? Once you name it you get attached? Like a fucking puppy or some shit_ —mother was a real piece of work, that’s for sure. He’d bring them with him for now. Just until he could get a DNA test done. Once the results came back, conclusive or not, he was ditching the kid. Hell, maybe if he left it in a richer, whiter neighborhood it could even have something going for ‘em later in life.

“Alright,” He had a game plan. That was a start. Toeing on his boots and slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder he made quick work of slipping on his disguise. A fake mustache here, a pair of sunglasses there, and boom! Unrecognizable. Hefting up the brat’s carrier he swiftly left the complex. His shoe scuffed the door on the way out. “Good fuckin’ riddance.”

He didn’t bother letting the lobby know that he left. One of the underpaid saps would find out soon enough. Besides, it’s not like _he_ was paying for the room. If he had any regret about leaving the area, it would be that his vantage point was rendered null. His hit frequented three places: the previous motel, a sleezy bar, and some crummy Seven-Eleven. Now that the motel was out of the picture, he’d have to resort to staking out the bar and the convenience store.

The back streets were quiet, barely lit, and prime mugging hotspots. He wouldn’t be an easy target, kid or no kid, but that didn’t discount the stupid. He could feel eyes watching him, looking for openings and trying to calculate his worth.

His fingers felt numb in the morning cold.

The gun pressed against his back felt even colder.

“Drop it.” He murmured, the feelings of adrenaline and anger spiking through his nervous system, “Or so help me I’ll bash in your fucking teeth.”

His assailant hadn’t replied. Instead, Doyle felt a grimy hand pull at his duffle bag. And look, if this had been any other day, Doyle would have allowed it. He would have let himself be robbed, fuck, he might have even given the guy some spare cash. But his patience was running low. Real fuckin’ low.

His elbow crashed into the guy’s nose before Doyle even registered that he did it. No matter how many years of repetition Doyle had under his belt he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of bone and cartilage snapping under his might.

There was a clatter, the sound of the gun falling to the ground.

Then, the sound of a faulty trigger, the safety latch not secured.

A deafening roar as a bullet left the chamber, its shell burying itself into a dumpster too close for comfort.

His ears rang, white noise scratching at his brain and serving to fuel his ire.

Somewhere, a baby was crying.

_Fuck_. That was stupid, really fucking stupid. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. He needed to get the fuck away, and quick. Doyle did his damage, if he gave in to that _itch_ that demanded he retaliate with violence he’d be no better than the fuckers who made him what he was. Besides. It was a brat. That much he could tell without glancing back. Probably no older than sixteen, new to the streets and scared.

It wasn’t his business.

“You’d be better off selling that shit than using it.” He said anyway. It’s not like he would stick around for long and its not like the brat would, either. Advice wasn’t worth shit nowadays, and it wasn’t likely the kid would follow it.

He walked away and didn’t look back. The god-awful thing he was carrying wouldn’t shut up. It would get the both of them killed. People were staring. He should have kept to the back-alleys, but he didn’t think he had the patience for another encounter. A few women maybe in their thirties cooed. Fucking vultures. He sent them a polite smile and doubled his speed.

The closest motel—not counting the one he was forced to vacate, was forty minutes East. One of the more expensive joints. It’s not that he was strapped for cash, but he didn’t think to line his pockets with it either. It was supposed to be a simple job.

Exhale; his brain urged him to pop a cigarette. It would stave off his growing hunger and possibly take an edge off his irritation. He could have one after he found a place to board up in. He definitely wasn’t walking to the hotel. And public transportation would be a bitch, too.

Maybe he didn’t need to put himself up at the nines, but shit, it would be nice. Looks like he wouldn’t get that privilege today. Doyle scrubbed his hand across his chin. He’d need to shave soon; but of course, that would be detrimental to the mission and would have to wait.

He was in the slums for a _reason_.

It wasn’t hard to spot a divested building. The entire thing looked like it wanted to crumble as the wind danced through its empty windows. Not even the homeless would be brave, or desperate, enough to make a home out of it. Jackpot!

Doyle had to wait for a few minutes. Had to be sure that there were no curious eyes following him. Call him paranoid, sure. He just preferred the term prepared, is all. Regardless, it was the perfect place to set up a temporary camp. He could enjoy electricity when he was able to ditch the shit-show of a town. And the baby, if possible.

Holing up on the second floor, Doyle finally found his balls. Carelessly flipping off the sun-cover that was really little more than a thick blanket, he squinted down at the thing occupying the cushy space. Small, kind of ugly, and wide fuckin’ awake.

It had been well-taken care of, the tear stained chubby cheeks were a testament to that, so once again Doyle had to wonder why it was given to him. As he lowered himself into a crouch, he was all too aware of the large hazel eyes looking up to him. Doyle hadn’t really had the chance to check but now that they were in a safer location…

There was nothing. Which, he should have known, but he blamed the lack of thorough checking on the surprising circumstances. He just didn’t understand it! The mother wiped from record, no trackers or chips left with the kid, and more importantly, nothing to go off of except for that useless certificate; he was kind of desperate at this point. Fuck! Even a note detailing some shitty sob-story would have sufficed.

The thing gurgled at him. Its flimsy hands curling and uncurling from their spot on the soft blue blanket before they raised up to him. Well. Tough luck. He wasn’t picking it up. Pulling one of his burner phones from his inner-jacket pocket, he made quick work in calling up his favorite jackass.

“ _What is it!_ ” Came a distorted grouchy voice from the phone’s pitiful speakers. “ _You were not supposed to use this line until you completed the job, novice._ ”

“Yeah, well something came up.” He bit back. That cheap fuck just loved to remind him that he was new, and expendable at that, “I don’t know if this is some kind of test, but you’ve got a really fucked up sense of humor, you know that?”

“ _What nonsense are you babbling about? The only ‘test’ that you should be taking is the one assigned to you. If you think it’s too much to handle…_ ” Doyle hissed, cutting the man off and trying to backtrack from the current line of topic.

“No! It’s just—shit,” The kid wheezed, his beige skin slowly turning red, “a problem came up. I’ll still make the mark by the deadline.” He waved his hand at the brat, succeeding in catching their attention and distracting them from the explosive tantrum they were probably planning on releasing.

“ _Make sure that you do. Take care of your ‘problem’ and get your ass back to work. Are we clear?”_

“Crystal, boss.”

The dial tone hung heavy on his shoulders. Against his better judgement he chunked the phone. It made a pathetic sound, but didn’t break, thankfully. The baby tutted. Its arms were still outreached towards him. Fat tears were rolling down their face, well good. They were both fed up then.

“Don’t look at me like that. You don’t even know me.” He huffed. “I have no reason to give in to you, so don’t get comfortable.” Drool escaped the infants’ mouth. They didn’t seem bothered. “I’m not just goin’ to drop you off somewhere though. I’m not _that_ big of an asshole.”

Was he rambling? Maybe. What else was he supposed to do?

“I’m still getting that blood test done. I don’t know who you are. Or who your mother is. But she knew my name. _My real name_. That’s not something anyone should know. Not anymore anyway. Once that’s done, I’ll set you up somewhere _real_ comfy. You like the white America? They’ll eat the shit out of you; an immigrant child? That’s gold. They’ll look great to all of their golf fuckbuddies. Sure, they might change your name to something generic, like James or John, but you would be well-off. Trust fund baby and all that.” The kid wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. Their eyes looking at something outside of the window. They seemed happy.

“But you don’t care about that do you? You won’t even remember this. Aren’t you fucking lucky?” He was getting nowhere, except maybe closer to the crazy bin. What kind of dumbass talks to babies expecting them to respond? What age do they even learn to talk?

He checked his watch. Seven-thirty-two. In an hour, give or take, he’d go to a hospital and get those tests done. He’d have to pull some connections. Sure, he had multiple fake identities. Three or four SS cards tucked away inside of his wallet but none of that would help if he was actually documented to the kid. Which, he wouldn’t be, but it never hurt to be well prepared.

Doyle needed answers.

Seven-fifty-three.

He’d get it all cleared up and then he could go on about his week and hell, maybe in a month he wouldn’t even remember this.

The kid was dozing off. Their eyes were barely half-opened now, but for some reason they decided to smile at him. Doyle wondered what they were thinking about. He wondered how the kid saw him. Why they weren’t crying now. They should be terrified; he was bigger than them, a stranger, and certainly not interested in keeping them happy. Kid was a crack-pipe. Too naïve to last long out in the area. He’d definitely have to bring him to a safer part of the town.

What kind of people would raise him? Would they be old and kind? The cookie-cutter type of grandparents from the movies he’d pirated. Or maybe they’d be young hopeful parents. The types that still went out on date nights and tried to relive the best of their high-school years. A single parent? One that could dedicate their free time to a baby. The possibilities were endless.

Eight-twelve.

As for the kid… would they be smart? Athletic? Eager to please? It was plausible. Especially when he looked down at the goofy smile. They’d probably dream of being a hero, or something equally mundane and cliché.

A cigarette was slipped between his lips before he realized that he had flicked his lighter. Smoke left from his nose sluggishly. He was feeling melancholic. It had been a long night. His feelings were justifiable.

He’d finish the drag, stub it out and be on his way soon. He just needed a minute to forget the feeling of frostbite gnawing at his toes. Another inhale. The smoke almost reminded him of the blizzard. It had been hard to see. Heat sparked at his knuckles. The butt had been eating away at the paper. There wasn’t enough left for him to smoke. He’d just burn his lips.

“Fuck me.” He threw it to the side. He couldn’t quite feel his legs, a side effect of being caught up in his memories he was sure. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?” He murmured as he lifted the carrier up to his hip.

Eight-thirty. Fight the morning rush. Eight-forty. Hop on the subway. Nine-o-clock. Switch trains and backtrack. Don’t draw suspicion. Nine-twenty-eight. Enter the building. File his paperwork. Gain sympathy. Single dad, wife long gone. _The baby, is it mine_? The con was an old one, not used by himself of course, but just as easily adapted. He got what he wanted. A slipped fifty was enough to secure anonymity from the secretary. Ten-thirteen. The tests are conclusive.

Congratu-fucking-lations.

_You are the father_.

The lab-tech had some fucking balls to tell him that. His smile wide and joyful. Completely misunderstanding Doyle’s shocked expression.

_He looks just like you_!

Doyle had taken it all with a smile. Asked for the results to be printed out. Played the part of a relieved father. He had slipped into the bathroom while the nurses calmed the kid down. He had no trouble slipping into the system. Deleting any recent information filtered in. To them, it would just appear as a glitch or malfunction. Nothing documented from nine to eleven. On his way out, he was met with cheers and best wishes.

_Come back next week, we can get him up to date on his shots. I’m sure he’ll be big and strong like his daddy soon_.

The cute blond in soft purple scrubs had told him. He had to remind himself to breathe; these fuckers didn’t understand. They were implying he had a responsibility. Like the kid was _his_ problem. It wasn’t. It wasn’t. It wasn’t. He owed them _nothing_.

Doyle could do what he did best! Pretend it didn’t exist! In fact, he should get rid of it already. Who the fuck was he trying to fool? Let the kid have a good life? A fighting chance? He didn’t get one so why should the brat? He ought to just let the thing rot in the streets like he did. Maybe they’d have something in common then, something more than blood.

_The kid was his_.

_It was a liability_!

_How could he be so stupid_?

Limbo seemed too kind of a word to describe what he was feeling. Sure, he knew where he was going—really, he had known since he had opened the door and saw the car seat. But thinking about returning to that hellhole and actually going there was two entirely different things.

He hesitated outside of the pristine government building. He wasn’t fooled. He remembered these types of places, he would never forget them really, how could he? Doyle wasted ten years of his life in buildings that looked just. Like. That.

The crystal-clear windows, most of them covered in cheerful flyers, excitedly urging males and females alike inside. It festered with better-than-thou energy and more often than not the woman working the desk was named Karen, or Clarisse, and they were more than happy to show off their ‘perfect’ family of four. A real hypocritical and judgmental bitch who fucked the boss on their lunch break. So yeah, Doyle knew their type. But of course, that’s not all that they had to offer. The bleak interior was sterilized down to the grout of the tile. Empty, haunting spaces that opened up into a mosh-pit of differing stages of grief; children ranging from infants to teenagers clinging to vestiges of anger so they wouldn’t drown under the weight of the all-consuming idea of separation. The concept of separation would be different for all of them though. Some would think of parents or siblings, and others would think of a warm home or places without expectations.

He’d been a part of both.

It wasn’t like the kid would be any the wiser. He was too young. Wouldn’t remember Doyle’s face, or what he was about to do. So why was Doyle having second thoughts? Was it because he would be going back on his word? Couldn’t be. Words didn’t mean shit to him—the only thing they did was ease the guilt of the speaker and convince the listener of something that was unlikely to become true.

His fingers tightened around the plastic handle so hard it hurt.

_It’s not my problem_.

He exhaled. Doyle tried not to think of himself. Really, he wasn’t _that_ big of a narcissist. He just looked out for himself! That was all. He didn’t have the time or skill to take care of a brat.

_You are making a mistake, Blackwell_.

But he couldn’t help but to put himself in the kid’s shoes. How many times had he wished for someone to take him away from it all? He would have done anything to escape the orphanage. Would his kid be like that, too? Would he eventually get away only to fall into the underground, like he did?

Fucking. Fuck, fuck! Doyle was going to kill himself thinking about the what-ifs! A beer. That’s what he needed! It would get his mind right back on track. He’d return later when he wasn’t all stirred up inside and finally get rid of the kid once and for all!

“Let’s see if you can get me any discounts.” He hummed before propping the carrier on his hip, “who knows, maybe if you earn your keep, I might just keep you around.” What’s a little white lie in the greater scheme? He snorted, “And hey! Chicks dig babies, right?”

The kid babbled back at him. Their tiny hands waving up and down like they understood him. Shit, could they? He’d pick up a pamphlet or something. He was just lucky it hadn’t started crying yet. Which was odd, right? Don’t children cry at the drop of a hat?

Well, it wasn’t defective. It cried earlier in the morning when the noise of the gun woke it up. Eh, Doyle wouldn’t complain. He didn’t want to hear that noise again. Too many bad memories associated with crying and screaming for his tastes. Still, he probably would have to feed it soon. Or himself, at least. He was starving.

If he remembered right, then there should be a half-decent Mom-n-Pop dinner around. That should be cheap enough to splurge on. It ought to have something soft enough for the kid to choke down, too. And pancakes hopefully. He was really feeling pancakes. Chocolate chip, specifically.

“So,” he started, “what can you eat?” The child hummed. “No seriously. I wasn’t exactly given an instruction manual. Can you eat solid foods yet? Or should I be fishing around for formula.” It cheered up at him; coincidentally, they flashed him with the sight of a single tooth.

That was probably a confirmation.

Good enough for him, anyways.


End file.
